


Les vagues de l'oubli

by amonitrate



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: Whether his eyes were open or shut all he could see was a blur of stars plummeting to earth.





	Les vagues de l'oubli

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to elistaire for a lightening-quick beta and to amand_r for encouragement and also for running the hlh_shortcuts fest.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Written circa 2007.

Black waves broke over the boulders, dissolving into white foam.  
  
Black waves washed the even beach, churning froth like lace at the edges.  
  
He watched them both and for a long moment he was in two places, two moments in time and he had to close his eyes, dizzy from the juxtaposition.  
  
When he opened them again he was still standing on the hotel balcony, the inky night before him and an empty room behind. Boulders rose from the coastline far below, misshapen shadows stark against the storm brewing out over the ocean. He leaned against the railing to stare at the swirling water beneath and the distance sparked a lurching vertigo. When the empty bottle slipped from his hands it tumbled away into invisibility before the sound of shattering glass signaled its demise.  
  
And where was he going to get more whiskey at this hour?  
  
He turned his back on the water and faced the small hotel room. Dark too - he'd left the lights off - and he could just make out the flat plane of the bed and the blank mirror of the television where it perched atop a short set of drawers. There wasn't even a mini-fridge to raid. And wasn't that a shame?  
  
  
They lay on their backs on the packed sand, wrapped against the cold in flannel and jeans and hiking boots and the stars spread out above them in a far flung map. They lay side by side, not touching, but MacLeod's presence burned next to him like a campfire in the dark. A dune loomed behind them, marred by their sliding trip down to the beach. Despite the lateness of the season, scattered clumps of sharp grass clung to life on either side of the path they'd made.  
  
Waves rushed in and away again a yard from their boots, even and calm, like the deep breaths of meditation.  
  
"What are we doing?" he whispered.  
  
He could just see MacLeod's smile through the darkness between them. "Shh. Just watch."  
  
  
Room service was always an option but whatever they'd have available wouldn't be enough, and besides - he'd have to actually talk to another human being. And the thought of trying to ask for anything, even something so trivial as a new bottle of whatever crap whiskey they'd have at this time of night, overwhelmed him. Asking would require words. Words sounded too complicated. He wasn't even sure this hotel had room service. Wasn’t entirely clear just where he was. He remembered...  
  
A flash of light, a howl, a grinding pain....  
  
Then there had been the car. And here he was.  
  
He left the sliding door to the balcony open despite the chill and wandered into the small room. Stood there, gooseflesh crawling over his arms and shoulders, as behind his eyelids stars wheeled and fell.  
  
  
"Oh," he said, as the first streaks of light crossed the sky. "Wow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He blinked and another one appeared. The wind picked up and chilled his nose, his bare fingers. MacLeod was soft breath and a rustle of cloth at his side. "Each one the size of a grain of sand," MacLeod said, hushed and solemn.  
  
The meteors bloomed out from the darkness to the left of Orion as if the giant tossed handfuls of diamonds into the night. They drifted in long arcs before vanishing, burned away by the atmosphere, living and dying in the space of a few breaths. The shower went on and on like a silent slow motion fireworks display until the sky over the horizon started to grey and the white lights faded and were hidden by the dawn.  
  
He knew it was just dust, debris, incinerated as it fell towards the planet but it seemed as if they were watching the stars escaping from their rightful positions in the sky, making a mad dash to meet them halfway between heaven and earth.  
  
  
The clash of swords startled him out of a daze and he opened his eyes to the dark of his hotel room. After his gasps faded he realized he was alone and the sound - metal grinding on metal - was nothing but an echo.  
  
He looked at his empty hands and wondered where he'd left his weapon.  
  
When he flicked the switch in the bathroom the glare of yellow light felt like staring into the sun. Reddish brown stood out under his fingernails, the lines of his palms, the beds of his nails, as if he was rusting away at the edges. He avoided the mirror. The tile was cool under his bare feet and gleamed the white of boiled bones.  
  
His short sword, smeared with blood, was propped against the tile walls of the shower stall. He didn't remember putting it there.  
  
  
"Duncan," he said, and MacLeod rolled to his side to face him. Sand coated the back of his plaid flannel sleeve. MacLeod’s touch was warm on his chilled cheek, his lips warmer. "Thank you," he said, breaking away. “It was beautiful.”  
  
He dug his hands into the cool sand, making wild plans to take a handful home with him. He’d store it in a jar, a reminder, a handful of falling stars.  
  
  
There was grit in his hair. He ran his fingers over his scalp and stared at the dull glitter of the sword under the too-bright light. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat but he was shivering, his teeth clenched. It took everything he had left to reach past the sword and turn the faucet to start the shower running. He stepped under the stream fully dressed.  
  
  
"What do you want? I’m a little busy." Methos shoved his grocery bag into the basket of his bicycle and waited for the intruder to go away. When he looked up the man was still there, blocking his exit from the bike rack with a too-familiar wide-legged stance.  
  
“I think you know what I want,” the stranger said.  
  
Methos rolled his eyes and fumbled through his pockets for the key to his bike chain. “Right now? Really?” He made a show of scanning the busy street. "In front of all these people?”  
  
"Not here, asshole.” The man took a threatening step forward and gripped the handlebar of the bike.  
  
"I knew I should have taken the car," Methos said.  
  
The challenger pulled a gun and aimed it at Methos’s chest. "Shut up. Either you come with me, or you die right here and I’ll take my chances with the pedestrians.”  
  
“And I suppose you’ll put down the gun when it comes to the fight, right? Against the rules, isn’t it?” He hadn’t had a challenge in a year and a day, not since Morgan Walker. The man facing him was American, of a height with MacLeod but thin, his cheekbones showing prominently in a sallow face. Scrawny even. On another day Methos wouldn’t have worried about the fight but the man had the jittery stare of a junkie after a fix and that kind of need was more difficult to overcome than mere strength.  
  
“You don’t have a choice but to find out.”  
  
"Oh, there’s always a choice." Methos’s eyes darted around the street, looking for any means of diversion but the challenger had him cornered in a cul-de-sac.  
  
"There’s an alley to your left. Move.”  
  
"Isn’t this a little public?" Methos felt the first stirrings of adrenalin. He’d left his broadsword at his flat - only the short sword lying in its sheath between his shoulder blades was holding back panic.  
  
"It’s not going to take long," the challenger said. “I don't expect we’ll be interrupted.”  
  
"Have it your way," Methos muttered. The challenger gestured with his gun and Methos left the bicycle behind.  
  
  
The water was scalding but he only felt it as a distant sting as it soaked through his shirt, his jeans, and washed the blood and dirt out of his hair. Underneath he was still cold. He spread his palms over the tiled wall, holding himself up, and watched the water swirling down the drain at his feet.  
  
  
The force of the blows was going to be too much for the short sword if he didn't end this soon. The other man wasn’t what Methos would call skilled with the blade in the classical sense but he was frenzied with bloodlust and he had the upper hand as far as reach went. Already Methos was limping from a jab at his hip that hadn’t quite healed and his left arm dangled at his side, cut through to the bone near his wrist. His left hand was slick with blood, his right with sweat. He adjusted his grip and went on the offensive, trying to slip under the other man’s guard.  
  
Twilight had fallen in the short time they’d been in the alley, the half-light reducing visibility just enough to give him a slight edge on the other man, who seemed night-blind. He had yet to get in a disabling blow and his head was starting to feel hollow and disconnected. He was losing more blood than was healthy, if he wanted to keep his head attached to his neck.  
  
Glass crunched under his boots and he lost his footing, his legs sliding out from under him, his back hitting pavement. The challenger pounced but Methos scrambled out of the way at the last moment and without hesitation plunged his short blade into the other man’s back.  
  
  
There was a pounding. He thought it might be the hammering of his pulse echoing through his skull. It rattled his teeth and he bit down, tasting blood. The wet clothing dragged at him and he let gravity have its way and sank down to huddle in the bottom of the shower still shivering despite the steam. He shook his head but whether his eyes were open or shut all he could see was a blur of stars plummeting to earth.  
  
The challenger howled and bucked and threw Methos off balance, the sword still stuck in his back like the key to a wind-up toy. Glass ground into Methos’s palms and into the skin at his back where his shirt had been shoved upwards by the skidding impact.  
  
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.  
  
Methos reeled, crab walking back, hands searching out anything to use as a weapon. The wounded immortal let out a bellow and charged him, his sword swinging a bright arc in the streetlights. Methos rolled away but too slowly - the edge of the blade bit his injured left arm at the bicep. He used the momentum to gain his feet again, coming up with a broken bottle in his working hand, and threw himself at his opponent before the man had a chance to recover his swing.  
  
He went for the throat, desperation guiding his aim. Slashed with every ounce of strength left and was rewarded with a hot gush of blood that spattered his face and hands. The other man’s sword clattered at his feet as they went down, Methos hitting the ground again just before the dying immortal collapsed on top of him, choking, his hands scrabbling at Methos’s face, nails scraping at his cheeks, his eyes. Methos cut again and again and his attacker jerked then went limp.  
  
When he'd caught his breath enough to move Methos realized he was lying in a puddle and that the dead man still had his head. He dragged himself out from under the body and sat up, panting, searching the mouth of the alley for witnesses; but the night had fallen quiet as if some silent signal had told the mortals to abandon the sidewalks for safer pastures.  
  
The short sword stuck at first and Methos had to brace himself with a boot to the man’s back to pull it free. The head, so nearly severed already, came off with one stroke. Methos fell back against the brick of the alley wall and waited.  
  
  
The water vanished, cut off with all the suddenness of a spring downpour. Hands pulled at the sopping fabric of his shirt and he roused enough to fight, scooting with his feet, sliding against wet tile until his back hit the wall and he could go no further.  
  
"Stop it. Dammit, Methos.” The voice was familiar. Somewhere in his mind Methos saw MacLeod smiling at him under a different kind of shower - the warm press of their bodies defended against the autumn wind under a shifting ceiling formed by streaks of starlight.  
  
His head lolled back and he blinked water out of his eyes. A face blurred above him, framed by light.  
  
"Come on. Let me help you.”  
  
"How’d you get in?” Methos slurred. There was an ache behind his ribs but he couldn’t remember why.  
  
“I let myself in. Little trick I picked up from Amanda.” MacLeod’s hands were at him again but this time Methos let him do what he wanted, which turned out to be stripping him of the wet shirt.  
  
“How’d you....” Methos lost whatever he'd been about to ask; but MacLeod seemed to be reading minds tonight.  
  
“You took his car. This is his hotel room - you must have found the key card in his wallet.”  
  
"Oh.” He didn’t remember. Wasn’t sure who they were even talking about but MacLeod sounded certain so he let it go.  
  
"Come on," MacLeod coaxed, pulling him upwards until he was standing again. If MacLeod noticed the sword he didn’t say anything. Methos stood there blinking as MacLeod unbuttoned his pants with a medic's impersonal touch and yanked them down over his hips. "Step out.” He obeyed without thought.  
  
"Apparently you look enough alike that the staff didn’t notice," MacLeod was saying, as if he expected Methos could follow the conversation. “Leighton’s Watcher saw you drive away from the scene. But you never went home.”  
  
Methos let MacLeod wrap him in a towel. The room shifted around him and then settled back into place.  
  
"Leighton?” The name meant nothing to him.  
  
“The immortal you beheaded," MacLeod said. This time there was a note of strain in his voice. "Charles Leighton.”  
  
Dawn came and chill settled into their bones and he sat up, grinning at MacLeod. "Race you back to the campsite," he said.  
  
  
"Leighton," Methos repeated, trying the sound of the name in his mouth, like tasting an exotic dish. It didn't fit right. He wanted to spit it out.  
  
MacLeod produced a thick terrycloth robe from somewhere and helped him into it. The room was fogged with steam. It had beaded on MacLeod’s forehead and on his upper lip. Methos reached out and brushed away a drop of moisture from the other man’s temple. MacLeod caught his hand and gave it a squeeze then rubbed another towel over his head to dry away the bulk of the water.  
  
Then he was in the main room again sitting on the edge of the bed while MacLeod ordered a pot of tea from room service. So there was room service. Guess he could have had that whiskey after all.  
  
“Joe called me," MacLeod was explaining. "When he got the report. You hadn’t gone home, you hadn’t gone to the bar, so I started calling hotels in Paris. But it turned out Leighton’s Watcher had followed you.”  
  
None of it made sense. None of it. "I didn't want to fight him,” Methos heard himself saying.  
  
"I know. We found your bike. Your milk went bad, I'm afraid.” MacLeod was trying too hard. Methos caught his gaze and saw something familiar there.  
  
"You knew him.” It wasn’t a guess. His hand went to cover his eyes, then dropped back to his lap. "There was a beach,” he said. "A meteor shower.”  
  
MacLeod frowned and the memory must have come back to him because he swallowed. Nodded. "You got that? From the quickening?" MacLeod sat next to him on the bed, not touching. It was too much like that night on the beach, surrounded by starlight. The night that had never happened. Not to him. He stood up and crossed to the sliding door that led to the balcony. MacLeod must have shut it because all he could see was the pale reflection of his face in the glass.  
  
"I don’t know." Methos shook his head. "I guess.... I thought.... For awhile I thought they were mine. But they’re not.”  
  
"What aren’t yours?” MacLeod was being so gentle with him. It had only been a quickening. Not any worse than any other.  
  
"They felt like mine," Methos said, turning away. "But they're not. Not my memories.”  
  
There was a long silence, then MacLeod seemed to understand. "I know."  
  
"They felt real," Methos said.  
  
"Methos, I know. It will pass. You know it will pass."  
  
"Who was he?” Methos asked. "Who was he to you?”  
  
MacLeod’s attention went to his hands where they were planted on his knees, twin buttresses against his thoughts. "A dear friend.”  
  
"I didn’t know.” Methos hugged the robe to his chest and stared out at the night. “I didn’t know.”  
  
“I know that. Of course I know that. Did you think--”  
  
Methos shuddered. “I don’t know why, but that’s the memory that stuck. You. Out of everything, it was you.”  
  
  
A knock at the door and Methos flinched but it was only the tea. MacLeod tipped the girl and carried the tray to the room's low desk. He poured out two steaming cups and crossed the room to hand one to Methos.  
  
"He cornered me," Methos said. He sipped the tea and let it burn his mouth. "I didn't even know his name.”  
  
MacLeod stood beside him, kept some distance between them. "I’d lost track of him thirty years ago. Joe said he’d lost a lover. Started hunting.”  
  
The ocean came into focus just beyond the balcony. This wasn’t Paris. He must have spoken aloud because MacLeod stifled a laugh that didn't sound the least bit lighthearted. "No,” MacLeod said. "It’s Brittany. Pen Lan. I don’t know how you found it.”  
  
"I don't remember," Methos said. He could hear the fear in his own voice.  
  
"Charlie must have driven into Paris, looking for a fight. And found you.”  
  
"Why come all that way?” Methos turned his back again, unable to separate this MacLeod from Leighton's version or his own memories.  
  
“He was mad. Mad with grief, mad with the hunt. I don't know why he did what he did.” MacLeod's voice was heavy with loss. “He was different when I knew him.”  
  
The glass was cool against Methos’s forehead. "He was young." The words tumbled out as if someone else formed them. “He loved you.”  
  
"Yes," MacLeod said. He didn’t hide his sorrow.  
  
"He was so young.” His hands were pressed against the sliding door. The sky outside was blanketed with clouds, not a star to be seen. "He was nothing but a grain of sand."  
  
"Methos. You have to let it go.” And MacLeod was at his side again, pulling his hands away from the glass. MacLeod's palms were warm and rough and enveloped his cold fingers.  
  
He should have been panicking - if what MacLeod had said was true he’d driven five hundred miles in a dead man's car, straight to a hotel room he’d never seen. He must have had the presence of mind to cover himself with a coat of some kind if the hotel staff hadn’t noticed the blood. He didn’t remember driving. Didn’t remember the quickening. Didn’t remember a thing before the black waves.  
  
"It’s okay. You'll be okay." He stared, unable to absorb the comfort intended by the words, as MacLeod manhandled him back over to the bed. "You must have taken hundreds of heads. Is this one so different?”  
  
Methos watched him pull aside the bed covers. “Yes.” But he didn’t have an answer for why that was so and MacLeod didn’t press.  
  
  
He dreamt of stars falling around him, settling in his hair and on his shoulders like snowflakes. When he woke the other man’s memories had faded and left behind a thick layer of unease. He blinked away sleep and shifted onto his side under the heavy blanket. MacLeod sat dozing in the room’s only chair, his head resting against the wall at an awkward angle. Dawn slanted through the sliding glass door, throwing a bright block of sunlight over MacLeod’s long legs. As if he’d sensed someone watching MacLeod stirred and sat up.  
  
"You’re awake.”  
  
That was obvious. Methos lay still, his mind hollow. "You didn’t have to sleep in the chair.”  
  
MacLeod’s expression didn’t change. “You were exhausted. I didn’t want to disturb you.” Methos let it go. They hadn’t shared a bed since Bordeaux. "It’s only been a few hours. Try to get some more sleep.”  
  
"I'm sorry about your friend," Methos said. His eyelids closed of their own accord and MacLeod gave way to darkness.  
  
"I am too," MacLeod said. “But Methos?” Methos didn’t open his eyes but MacLeod must have known he was listening. “I'm not sorry you beat him.”  
  
When he slept again he dreamt of velvet black, unmarked and unmade, buffeted by the sound of MacLeod's even breathing like waves against an unseen shore.  
  
  
Ce sera un long voyage  
sur les vagues de l'oubli.  
-Arcade Fire  


* * *


End file.
